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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27914341">tangles and tradition</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon'>boom_goes_the_canon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>schemes of snowfall [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bad Jokes, Canon Era, Enjolras' Ethereal Beauty, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Snow, Snowmen, Tooth-Rotting Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:20:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,103</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27914341</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s nearly midnight when Enjolras turns up on Grantaire’s doorstep, shifty-eyed and with his hands stuffed in his pockets. The snow caking the brim of his cap and the shoulders of his coat look like frosting.</p><p>“I heard you were a libertine,” Enjolras says, and before Grantaire can do so much as babble a reply, pushes inside.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>schemes of snowfall [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tangles and tradition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s nearly midnight when Enjolras turns up on Grantaire’s doorstep, shifty-eyed and with his hands stuffed in his pockets. The snow caking the brim of his cap and the shoulders of his coat look like frosting.</p><p>“I heard you were a libertine,” Enjolras says, and before Grantaire can do so much as babble a reply, pushes inside. The small room is cluttered, the corners bedecked by cobwebs and dust. A single flickering candle illuminates the floorboards underneath the piles of laundry. Enjolras looks around and takes everything in, and his eyes pierce Grantaire’s soul.</p><p>“Your accusations are unfortunately correct. I am a libertine, as judged by gods and men, and by the masses who have heard my name,” Grantaire says, vaguely aware that too much time has passed for his reply to be considered casual. Enjolras just <em>looks</em> at him, with terrifyingly blue eyes, and the corners of his lips twitch.</p><p>“A simple ‘yes’ would suffice,” Enjolras says pleasantly, and he reaches past Grantaire to close the door after himself. Grantaire didn’t even close the damn door. He fights the urge to introduce his palm to his forehead.</p><p>He makes a flourish of his hand instead. “Of course, but nothing is enough for me, since we are operating under the assumption that I am a libertine—”</p><p>Enjolras smiles, a real one this time, showing his white teeth. He even rolls his eyes, and Grantaire’s heart does a somersault. “—how could I forget,” Enjolras says, gracious, dipping his head in an ironic bow. His golden curls bob tantalizingly, and Grantaire bobs along too, because he’s an idiot who wears his feelings on his sleeve.</p><p>Finally, Grantaire recovers enough of his manners to offer Enjolras some wine and a seat, both of which Enjolras accepts jerkily, like a badly-puppeteered marionette. He doesn’t even take a sip of the wine, which is a waste of good wine, as far as Grantaire’s concerned.</p><p>“I need a favor,” Enjolras says, after a long silence.</p><p>“Anything. I’m at your service.” He tempers the sincerity with an ironic bow of his own, sweeping an imaginary hat off his head and sinking to his knees. “Your wish is my command, and so on.”</p><p>“Get off the floor, Grantaire.”</p><p>He does. Enjolras glances at him up and down, then finally gives a firm, decisive nod.</p><p>“I need libertine instruction,” he says, and his cheeks redden. “If you wouldn’t mind.”</p><p>Alarm bells sound in Grantaire’s head, and he swears he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. Libertine instruction. What could Enjolras possibly mean by <em>that</em>? Visions of Enjolras awkwardly asking for help in romantic matters dance through Grantaire’s mind. Enjolras talking about fluttering in his chest, curiously-worded questions about kissing, wooing, or worse—</p><p>“—If it disturbs you, I can leave,” Enjolras says, and he looks like he’s about to bolt, like a particularly skittish colt, or a certain Marius Pontmercy. Loath as Grantaire is to admit it, it does not suit him particularly well.</p><p>“Of course I’m not disturbed,” Grantaire lies. “That is my area of expertise after all.” His throat is suddenly scratchy, and he feels the urge to stick a finger in his collar and pull. He clears his throat, gulps wine. “How can I, ahem, help?” Professional. Detached. That’s the way to handle this.</p><p>“God, this is embarrassing.” Enjolras looks away, refuses to meet his eyes, and all of Grantaire’s resolve melts.</p><p>“Don’t worry about it. It isn’t like I haven’t done embarrassing things in front of you.”</p><p>Enjolras giggles, a sound that Grantaire has never in his wildest dreams imagined, but it’s short-lived. His face turns serious again. “You have to swear to me that you will not tell anyone.” He grabs Grantaire’s shoulder, shakes a little. “<em>Anyone</em>.”</p><p>Grantaire’s face feels as hot as embers. In a minute, the liquor in his veins will catch fire and burn him up. He manages to nod, giving his voice some time to sort itself out. “I’ll keep your very important and scandalous libertine secrets. They’re perfectly safe with me. Couldn’t have it any other way. Can’t have them ruining your reputation, after all.”</p><p>Enjolras nods, like that makes sense. He releases Grantaire’s shoulder, agonizingly slow. It’s a miracle Grantaire doesn’t scream at him.</p><p>“Well, what’s your big secret?” The words are barely out of his mouth, and he’s already wincing at the tone. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid—</p><p>“—I have heard that people, um,” Enjolras clears his throat and lowers his voice. “That people play in snow.”</p><p>Grantaire waits expectantly. “…Well?”</p><p>“Is it true?” Enjolras’ eyes are wide and earnest.</p><p>Grantaire bites back his first incredulous retort. Enjolras doesn’t look like he’s making a joke, and only looks more worried with every passing second. “Yes, it’s true,” he finally chokes out, trying to keep all suggestions of insincerity from his tone. “You’ve heard correctly.”</p><p>Enjolras nods to himself and presses on. “I would like to participate in these…traditions. Snow traditions, if you will.”</p><p>“Okay,” Grantaire says, slowly and carefully so he doesn’t burst into laughter. Enjolras doesn’t deserve it.</p><p>“I want to build a snow-man.” He sounds like he’s confessing to murder and hiding a dead body. “I thought, since you have experience in that area—you know?”</p><p>That is how Grantaire ends up out-of-doors on a snowy December morning, well before dawn, watching Enjolras ineffectively struggle to roll a cylinder out of snow.</p><p>“A snow-man needs legs,” Enjolras had said, when Grantaire had explained the traditional methods. “Two legs and no feathers.” He grinned. “As Plato said.”</p><p>Grantaire had thrown a snowball at him and sat on a sheltered porch.</p><p>“You could help,” Enjolras says, flinging a handful of snow at him. “You said you would.”</p><p>“We could follow the traditional methods,” Grantaire says, patting another tiny snowman into place at his feet. He’s made ten of them by now, just to show off. Enjolras sticks his tongue out at him.</p><p>“Fine,” Enjolras says, switching directions to form a vaguely lumpy ball. “We can stick branches in for the legs.”</p><p>“You really aren’t letting this go, are you?”</p><p>Enjolras haphazardly slaps another snowball on top of the larger one. “Behold, a man,” he deadpans, before gesturing vehemently at the monstrous creation.</p><p>Grantaire can’t help it. He bursts into laughter. And then he keeps laughing. He falls on his side, squishing several tiny snowmen, and rolls about, still laughing. Enjolras is busy rolling up the snowman’s head in relative silence, but he’s beaming.</p><p>When Grantaire finally comes to himself, he finds that he’s squashed seven on the ten tiny snowmen. A few meters away, Enjolras lovingly pats the last few lumps of snow into place, humming under his breath with a smile.</p><p>God, Grantaire loves him.</p><p>Enjolras bounds back from the snowman, clapping his hands in excitement and giggling. There’s no one on the street to see, but Grantaire would challenge all the non-existent passer-by to look upon Enjolras’ lopsided, misshapen snowman and not be irresistibly charmed.</p><p>“Your opinion?” Enjolras says, after a long silence. He’s gotten control of his laughter, but his breath hitches.</p><p>“Needs a thinner waist,” Grantaire says. “I mean, he ought to be fashionable, right? A higher collar, and curls.”</p><p>“Courfeyrac would kill me otherwise,” Enjolras agrees, and his fingers fly over the rapidly melting snow, haphazardly scooping and piling more snow on top. The head of the snowman gets a couple more lumps, and the waist gets grotesquely reduced. Grantaire rubs his fingers and proceeds to swirl a pattern into the snowman’s waistcoat.</p><p>“Do snowmen have rights?” Grantaire says, stabbing two fingers into the face to make a nose.</p><p>“In a snow-republic, they do.” Enjolras smiles, and steps away from the snowman, head cocked to one side to examine his work. His hair flips like a flag encrusted with snow.</p><p>Grantaire addresses the snowman. “Greetings, snow-citizen.”</p><p>Enjolras smiles at that, and steps closer to Grantaire. He’s practically leaning his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, with the way his neck is bent, and his hand is close to Grantaire’s. “We should name him,” Enjolras whispers.</p><p>“He’s not under our rule,” Grantaire whispers back. “You can give him the most ridiculously revolutionary name you want.”</p><p>“Liberté Égalité Fraternité?”</p><p>It’s a completely ridiculous name to give a man, even a melting snowman ugly enough to give Grantaire a run for his money. He considers voicing the thought, breaking the silence and possibly offending Enjolras.</p><p>“No, that sounds bad,” Enjolras decides before Grantaire can speak up. “I’ll just call him Jean.”</p><p>“Jean,” Grantaire echoes, and his teeth chatter a little.</p><p>Enjolras looks curiously at him, and takes his gloved hand, turning it towards the dawn light like a jeweler examining precious stones. His touch is a gentle pressure through the cloth. “You’re cold,” he states simply, a statement of fact instead of a question.</p><p>“Yes,” Grantaire says, unable to meet Enjolras’ eyes. “It’s snowing. Of course I’m cold. It’s no big deal,” he adds, because Enjolras is getting that <em>look</em> in his eyes, the one that says he will change the world and there’s nothing it can do to stop him. It’s a good look on him, but it’s entirely too serious to be turned on Grantaire’s imminent frostbite.</p><p>Before Enjolras can speak again, Grantaire puts a hand over his mouth. He doesn’t know what makes him do it—it’s a monumentally idiotic, inexcusable, decision. He can feel his cheeks burning, and knows that Enjolras can see. “Shh,” he says, making the situation even worse. “It’s fine, Enjolras. I’m fine. You don’t have to make a big deal about it.”</p><p>They’re entirely too close. He can see Enjolras’ eyelashes, the shadows they cast on his reddened cheeks. He can feel Enjolras’ breath, the beat of his heart.</p><p>Enjolras shoves him off, holding a glare for maybe five seconds before bursting into laughter. He scoops up snow and forms it into a ball, throws it right in Grantaire’s face. And when Grantaire spins exaggeratedly from the force of the blow, he catches Grantaire, brushes the snow off delicately, and kisses him on the mouth.</p><p>Grantaire’s brain breaks, just a little. Then he kisses Enjolras back, and Enjolras sounds <em>very</em> happy about that development, and really, there was no hope for his brain anyway.</p><p>Enjolras lets go of him after a while, a huge grin on his face. And the first thing Grantaire says is, “You might have scandalized Jean.”</p><p>“Jean can handle himself,” Enjolras says, but he looks over his shoulder at the snowman anyway, because he’s Enjolras. Grantaire tries not to look too besotted and fails miserably.</p><p>Apparently deciding that the snowman was still fine, Enjolras turns the full force of his gaze back on Grantaire. He can feel his face go various shades of red, and Enjolras has the nerve to look smug.</p><p>“Shut up,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t pout. He <em>doesn’t</em>.</p><p>“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Enjolras smirks, and gives Grantaire a peck, right on the tip of his nose. “Still cold?”</p><p>“Shut up,” Grantaire repeats, without any force behind it.</p><p>Enjolras laughs and leads Grantaire back to the snow. “We need to make Jean a companion. We can’t leave him all alone in this weather.”</p><p>So that his how Grantaire helps Enjolras make another lumpy, misshapen snowperson, a snow-woman this time, Enjolras says, in the interests of equality.</p><p>“Let’s call her Jeanne,” Grantaire says, shaping out the structure of a bonnet he’s once seen in a shop window. Enjolras ruins it by slapping on what he says is a ribbon, but looks like sausages linked together.</p><p>“Jean and Jeanne?”</p><p>“They needn’t be a couple. Just a brother and a sister, fighting to survive in a world that always seems against them.” He rolls up a sleeve and lets Enjolras figure out the other one. Jeanne will just have to deal with her dress shrinking wildly.</p><p>Enjolras hums, slaps some snow on and draws what seems to be lace on the snow-woman’s bodice. “She has the same rights as Jean,” he declares, drawing a cockade on amidst the lace.</p><p>“Yep,” Grantaire says, trying to fix the eye that Enjolras put two inches from the ear. “She does.”</p><p>Their hands keep tangling together as they work on the snow sculpture. Enjolras does not stop smiling, and the sunlight hits his hair just right and makes it glow. The snow-woman turns out quite a bit better than her partner. All is right with the world.</p><p>And when they finish, and read the snow-people their rights, Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s hand, laces their fingers together, and leads them down the street. “Now, tell me how to have a snowball fight.”</p>
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